To that point, then, his course was clear. He could not console the mother, whose reason was stricken at its base, nor the three young girls whose lives were overshadowed by tragedy; but he could divert their minds from dwelling too much on calamity by bringing in a new interest. He could make it a big interest. He could enlarge the interest in proportion to their need; and, as Jennie spoke, it dawned on him that they themselves began to foresee that their need might be great indeed. "They’ve got all the power in the world to punish him; and they’re going to do it." "He’s going to cling to you like a drowning man. Very likely he’ll have to drown." Jennie had had one or two interviews with Stenhouse, and perhaps had inferred from that great man’s talk the difficulties of his task. But the help she gave Bob was in her response to his misgivings. "When there’s just one person on earth to show him a little pity, I shouldn’t think it could be too much." It couldn’t be too much—not possibly. The worst enemy of mankind had a right to "a little pity," and even Judas Iscariot had received it. If Teddy didn’t get it from him, Bob, he wouldn’t get it from anyone—his mother and sisters apart. All civilized men were lined up against him, and doubtless could not be lined in any other way. In that case, punishment was assured, and, as Jennie said, there were plenty of people to take care of its infliction. He, Bob Collingham, since he stood alone, might well forget the heavy score against the boy in "bucking him up" to meet what lay ahead of him. He worked this out before driving Jennie and her mother to their door, after which he waited for Gussie and Gladys to come home from work to take them, too, for an airing. Jennie sat beside him, as on the earlier drive, the two younger girls in the seat behind. To both, the expedition was as the first stage of a glorification which might carry them up to any heights. Taken in connection with what they suffered on account of Teddy, it was like drinking an unmingled draught of the very bitter and the very sweet. Hardly able to lift up their heads from shame, they nevertheless felt the distinction of going out in an expensive high-powered car with a gentleman of wealth and position, who thus publicly proclaimed himself their relative. "This’ll settle Addie Inglis and Samuella Weatherby," Gladys whispered, in reference to some taunt or aspersion which Gussie understood. "Say, Gus, he’s some sport, isn’t he? Jen sure did cop a twenty-cylinder." But Gussie had already turned over her new leaf. From the corner where she reclined with the grace of one accustomed from birth to this style of conveyance, she arched her lovely neck and turned her lovely head just enough to convey a hint of reprimand.